


Collection of The Absolute Worst Writing

by Abhorable



Category: A Nightmare on Elm Street - All Media Types, Friday the 13th Series (Movies), Halloween Movies - All Media Types, Saw (Movies), The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gore, I APOLOGIZE, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Violence, dwight and ace are just friends and yes i fucking mean that, hurt comfort, i forgot to put these in, i totally ripped off dead by drabbles by doing dbd lil prompts but what eve r, leatherface is a sweet boy, ok so, please give me stuff to write i run out of ideas fast, taking requests, vivid graphic descriptions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-07 09:36:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16405913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abhorable/pseuds/Abhorable
Summary: Oneshots, prompts, you name it, I'll probably write something about it for slashers.





	1. Intro

Okay so let's get this straight.

I will take requests from the start of this book until I decide to inevitably abandon it.

While I'm waiting on requests I'd like to dictate the following:

I write about slashers and shit like that, recommend me movies to watch so I have more content to produce or give me snippet ideas to work with. 

Until I get a few requests, I'll gawk over Michael Myers and do dumb song prompts for DBD characters. 

Sound good? Great!

I hate it when there's a description page and nothing else.  
So this one goes out to all you Michael, Jason and Bubba lovers. Just a few quick snippets for introduction, though.  
There's also another Michael chapter I'll be releasing alongside this little intro, suggested on my other fic. 

Jason Voorhees: Everyone's favorite dog  
Jason, overall, is very sweet. He likes a lot of traditional practices of romance, mostly with giving gifts to whomever he's decided is worthy enough to pursue.  
As it's only ever so often that people do try to rebuild something on Camp Crystal Lake, he's very homely and reclusive. He does a lot for himself and tries to salvage what he can after the reoccurring domestication of his wild land.  
He, out of most slashers, is more likely to try and be a people pleaser. Being dead, he doesn't exactly need a whole lot for himself, and he's very giving.  
Burly and ice cold to the touch, he genuinely just wishes the best for everyone.

Michael Myers: A brief summary  
Michael is terrifying. He's a brooding mass of silent fury and raw power. A psychopath who takes ownership of what he cares about very, very seriously.  
Though mostly locked and caged behind padded walls, he's just as quiet in captivity as he is in the wild. Unless he has a goal to pursue. Then he's at no fault to continue on and finish what he's started, no matter what.  
Michael likes hair. He doesn't care much about appearance, but hair is very important to him. So long as movements in domestic life are brought along in a way he can observe, he's fairly happy.  
Lanky, a fair contender for the strongest, Michael is pure radiation of raw power and carnal surveillance.

Bubba Sawyer: The softest man you ever did see  
Bubba is a puppy brought into human form, raised solely on family values, and no morals.  
A homebody at heart, the happiest times for him are well spent with family and a homecooked meal. Not out on the job, he's a little less likely to be screeched at, so he prefers a bit more of a quiet time.  
He's easily frustrated, and fearful for other's disappointment. Though able to snap nearly anyone he wanted to in half, he simply doesn't want to.  



	2. Fiend (Michael M.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taken as a suggestion off my other work.  
> Reader was Michael's former bully. He doesn't take that very well.  
> 

When I'd stepped into my home on a cool October evening, it wasn't unusual to find myself entirely alone.  
My parents would be out late at work, filing whatever their co-workers couldn't because of their children's schedules.

Halloween was less of a thrill during senior year than I'd anticipated.  
I hadn't even been invited to the party across the street. So, showing up uninvited would only stir stupidity. I don't have time for that.

I threw my disintegrating schoolbag atop the counter, and cracked open the cupboards to rummage through and steal whatever snacks lay out in the unprotected wilds of the kitchen pantry.  
It took a good few moments of searching to retrieve a bag of graham crackers. 

I set the bag upon the counter, took a seat on one of the kitchen stools, and began to snack.

This year's Halloween was a disaster.

My parents had left for work an hour ago, and I likely wouldn't see them again until I woke up for school the next morning. They'd been working overtime far more than they usually did.

And some creep escaped the ol' Smith's Grove asylum only a few days ago.  
It set everyone into a weird, frenzied panic.

Especially that Laurie chick.  
She claimed to be seeing someone all the time now, and all her friends started to call her psycho for it.   
I'll admit, I did too. 

Haddonfield was  _the_ little town off the side of the road that might look a little interesting, but the majority of the place is wracked with seething boredom in every crevice. 

It's uninteresting.  
And now there's a rampaging psychopath around.  
What a queer. Going out on Halloween to spoil some asshole kid's fun, by no fault of their own making them infinitely horrible nightmares and trauma throughout the ages.  
Come to think about it, it was probably for the best. Have them break out sooner rather than later.

I mindlessly snacked on my crackers while beginning to take a jaunt around the house.  
Maybe just throw myself in a blanket for the night, and settle down with a bowl of popcorn and movie.

That seemed best. Better the kids that'll grow up and get crazy into shit music now than in the future if the dude's insanity bounces off the walls of consciousness and into the hallucinogens of acid hate.

Why was I even thinking about this?

Regardless, I meandered into the living room and plopped myself down on the couch, eyes darting for the remote.  
The fucker was right smack on top of the T.V.

Begrudgingly, I rose from my seat, took another bite of my cracker as I walked, and snatched the remote.  
While I was at it, I turned on the T.V.

Lots of shitty Halloween movies to skim through and be annoyed by people's stupidity.  
Should go well enough.  
Some new film called "Jennifer" was playing. The credits flashing with boring shit, though the director's name was Brice Mack.  
Who the hell spells "Brice" like that? Shouldn't that be a y?

I found myself on the couch, less enjoying the movie rather than making myself dinner and being bored out of my skull.  
Everyone on Wednesday next month would probably show up to school hungover as hell. And I couldn't even show for that.

I dragged my feet along the floor, holding the plate of pasta I'd haphazardly made for dinner.  
I began to slide into my seat, that was until I'd seen the fucking ghoulish face in the window behind the T.V.

White mask. Imposing.  
On a dude in a shitty janitor's outfit doused in fake blood.  
What the hell.

"What are you doing in my yard," I yelled, setting my plate down on the coffee table as I walked to the glass door. "What the fuck?"

It's Halloween. It's not unusual to see someone in a costume.  
But someone that imposing, standing in the middle of my backyard, is completely bull.  
How long was he even there?

It's far past the county trick-or-treating times.  
He certainly wasn't accompanied.

I got up and walked over, cracking open the door.  
"This is private property. You need to leave."

He takes a step towards me. I can see something glinting in his hand.

I went to close the door, and he stuffed a knife between the doorframe. I tore my hands back.  
He threw it open with speed and strength far outweighing my own, knocking me back in his wake.

He stepped inside, head tilting slightly as he approached.  
And I ran right for the kitchen.

I was a rat in a maze of my own home.   
Snatching my purse off the counter, he was in hot pursuit, tracking a sea of red across the white shag carpet and tile.  
And fuck, did I run to the front door. 

It was locked.  
I had locked it.  
And now I was scrambling to get it open.

He was right behind me. I could feel his heated breath against me as approached.

And the lock hardly budged.

He grabbed me by the arms, tossing me to the ground as he stood above me.

He has a knife in his hand.  
I felt the cool metal of it against my throat as he came down to my level.

His left hand moving for his own face, he peeled off the mask.

It was rugged, a little bit bloodied near the eyes, and stoic. But his eyes. They were so familiar.  
Empty. Sleepless with black circles, god knows how long they've been there.  
But I'd seen them a hundred times.

"Mi-chael?" I tried not to move, to prevent my throat getting slashed.  
He stared down at me, knife pressing more against my skin as I murmured.

I knew him so well.  
Well, everyone did.  
The quiet kid in the back of class who only mumbled little mantras to the teacher when they asked him a question.

I hadn't seen him since the start of first grade.

I punched him in the face the day before his birthday.

And nobody saw him after that.

But here he was. Looming over me, soaked in blood and god knows what else.  
He raised his armed hand.

And I braced myself for what I hoped would be painless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! This is a quick little note for anyone reading my other Michael story, Midway into the Dream.  
> The entirety of what I had written up for the second chapter was deleted when I was attempting to fix the uploading issues I had.  
> I spent about four days on it, so roughly for comparison, it might take me until Monday-Wednesday in order to get it rewritten.  
> I apologize.


	3. Hug (Leatherface)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leatherface, of all people, is one who nobody could really assume wouldn't be loved by his family of crazies.  
> You don't understand the concept of a hug coming from a cannibal.

It was a stupid idea.  
It was such a stupid fucking idea.

My friends had dared me to steal some corn off the abandoned Sawyer field, and here I fucking am.  
Days later, still stuck like this.

Tied to a metal pole, in a basement that smells like a decade's worth of slaughtered animals.

I've been crying so hard that my eyes have become red and swollen, I can hardly see anything. But everything is so close to my skin, I can feel it regardless.  
The floor is soaked in rust and blood, so is most of the room. The paint off of the bricked walls is chipping heavily, and the blood smeared across them doesn't help with the peeling.

There's a large, rickety table in the corner of the room. With nothing but needles, thick twine, and a sewing machine upon it.

Though this is torture, at least they had the decency to leave me my clothes.  
It doesn't really help.

A hefty man in a stained apron has come down those steps right in front of me every day, at the same time, for the past five days.  
He brings a dog's bowl of water, a small, dirtied wooden bowl filled with who-knows-what kind of meat. And sits at that wooden table, though there is no chair. He just kneels upon the ground, and does whatever sick project he's working on.

I occasionally see him bring human entrails down to work with.

I've seen him plunge needles into kidneys, and never give a damn about what I did.

Until the two of us heard screaming upstairs, where he'd hastily drop what he was doing, grab my bowl of "food" and scramble back up the steps.  
I usually could hear a harsh "Blubber, what in god's name were you doing down there?" before the iron door would slam shut.

I usually didn't dare touch the food they gave me, but the water was fine enough.

The basement, for the most part, was silent after the door was closed.  
I'd learned that the first day I was brought here while I ruined my voice for a few hours of crying for help.  
I don't even know how long I've been here. Wherever "here" even is.

I rubbed my left hand against the twisted, home-made iron shackle I am chained by.  
The thing might look flimsy, but it's solid iron. And it won't come off. I already bruised my hand trying to get out of it.  
I take the cup of water with my right hand, sipping in small amounts.

I can feel myself getting worn weak by days of starvation.

The creaking of the metal door at the top of the stairs begins, and I immediately drop my drink, coiling back up against the metal pole and into my bonds.

"Bubba" came down first. That yellow apron drenched in new, slick blood. And a tie on top of it, different from yesterdays, though still soiled with the fluid. He carried the usual bowls of meat and water.  
And then the other one.   
He was a thin, wiry man. A beard to match and enough cold hatred in his eyes to rival those of my family. He was much shorter than the brute of a man besides him.  
I shrunk down further as he became visible from the bottom step.

"Boy, I told you to fatten the pig before we eats it," He snapped his head to the other man. "She's thin's a twig."

The other started to make noises of distress, groans of fear in whatever voice he had left.  
He was hardly human.

"Yer grandpappy's gettin' mighty impatient waitin' on the wench." He snarled again, eyes narrowing. I winced. "Yah best get on that."

He punched the larger man in the arm, but it sure as fuck wasn't playful. He hit hard, and with anger in his eyes, he stormed back up the flight of stairs, slamming the door behind him.

Bubba stood across from me. He approached, set the bowls down right in front of me and waited for me to do something.  
Which he never did.  
He would always throw it down about a foot or so from me, and hobble off to his little desk.

I guess today isn't my lucky day, huh?

He came closer.  
He smelled just like the room around him.  
Horrible.  
So I turned my head and looked down.

He put a calloused, bloody hand to my face and moved me to look at him.  
Little force in his grip, though his stature suggested heavily otherwise.

He gave a gentle stroke to my cheek and pushed the bowls further to me with his free hand.

If his elder's word was any consolation, I'd rather starve than be made a meal out of.

His gentle touch didn't change that.

In a matter of moments, he dropped my face and headed for the stairs. Once at the top, he opened the door and left. But he didn't  _shut_ the door.  
Had my wrist not been rubbed to purple and green already, I would have bolted.

The house was quiet for a minute or so. I saw a glint of yellow from the top of the stairs, and that beast of a man walked right back on down.   
He held a singular cob of corn. 

Holy shit.

Food I might consider eating.

He set it down in my food bowl, and pushed it back to me.   
I refused to touch it until he left.  
I couldn't give him the satisfaction.

Within those hours of him sitting at his little station, I did nothing but stare at him so I'd know the exact moment it would finally be fine for me to eat..  
And in those hours of staring at him, I noticed only three things.  
One; He didn't look like he'd had any sort of hygiene for himself or his belongings in at least three years.  
Two; Black grease and blood stained this man from head to toe.  
Three; He had certain parts of his body grafted over with other skin. Most specifically, the face. And in my tear-blind terror, I had failed to notice the mask of human skin stretched upon his head like a few hundred layers of old makeup, if they had twine and metal staples to keep it on.

He left after a good period of time, chugging up those iron steps.

And I feasted afterwards.  
I ate that corn raw, and I enjoyed it. The little shells on the outsides of the kernels were sharp as hell against my teeth, but it was crisp. And it was food.

And the next day, I was brought two more. And so on, for days on end.   
Once they were even cooked.

I was ecstatic each day to wake up, and be brought another slight bit of nutrients.  
Until one fine day, Bubba didn't show up.  
Nobody came to the cellar door to bring me anything.

And it was a firm reminder of heavy hunger in my gut. Hunger I wish I didn't have.

But the next, Bubba returned. He came down those stairs as usual, though he didn't carry anything familiar at first. As he walked down, it became more apparent that he held a heavily rusted crowbar.  
It didn't take an idiot to find out what was going on.

Wasn't like I could delay it.

Kneeling down, he came right up to me. I immediately jerked away from him, leaving only my left arm near him.  
The crowbar slipped right under the metal and on top of the support beam. And it went up in a mere second.  
Today was the day. The harvesting of the crop. 

I didn't have the energy to struggle as he grabbed my once chained arm.   
He tugged me closer towards him and I could see his lip quiver behind the flesh-mask.

And threw his arms around me. It wasn't a chokehold, anything.

It was just a hug.

And I haven't had one of those in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha I did this  
> i'm not crying you're crying  
> it took me forever to finish this but it gives me the feel good warmness in my soul  
> leatherface is a sweet baby boy
> 
> mild hints of parental abuse  
> i apologize if anyone finds that sensitive


	4. Dice(Dwight&Ace)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ace is a little bit of a pickpocket, and finds something rather interesting today.  
> Dwight is a nerd, through and through.

Usually, when poking around everyone's belongings, I was a bit more cautious as to not get caught.  
Apparently not today.  
Though nobody else was around camp, whether they be exploring or in a trial, I kept my guard up.

Cash was as meaningless and frivolous as the shoddily crafted luxuries we carried in the Entity's little card deck. Didn't mean I didn't steal it from everyone's pockets, or that I shouldn't. Money is money.  
And hell, if we ever got out of here? I'd be a much richer man.   
Their money seemed to regenerate each time they came back from the dead anyways, so where's the harm in a little pickpocket advent?

Money grubbing as ever, you beautiful bitch, Ace.  
At least some sort of figure head is being upheld here whether or not it's crooked.

While poking around camp, lazily slipping my fingers through everyone's extra clothes we kept around, I was more than certain that I had found something within the pocket of a button-up shirt.  
Something hard.

I reached my hand in, and pulled out a small velvet pouch. I pulled at the drawstrings, peeking inside. A few dice, all right.

I poured the contents into my hand, revealing not only what I was familiar with, but an assortment of many other sided plastic shapes.  
Now I, Ace Visconti, was bamboozled.

Each side was numbered, and it appeared that there were two colored sets.   
One in a strange, chrome metal blue with white lettering, and the other. It was far more intricate. Each shape done out of carved wood, small darkened incisions in the blocks, giving them a distinct rustic look.  
But holy fuck, some of them even went up to the number 20.  
I'd never seen anything like it.

As I stuffed them back into their home, I turned on my heel and up around. Face first into someone else.  
Stranger still, I couldn't escape our "Leader", Dwight, as he stared me down.

His arms folded across his chest, he began to tap his foot up and down like a disturbed mother after their son had been found trying to get the local racoons into a fight, only to end up with a large gash along their arm.  
I'm no kid in a raccoon fight, but he's just as angry.

"Why're you digging through my stuff?" His voice came out high pitched and squeaky, riddled with anger that settled as he got more used to speaking. I had to suppress a small chuckle.

"No harm in it," I shrugged, putting my hands up to some allusion of innocence. 

"You have my dice bag, Ace."

"It's not like another one won't show up in your pocket later."

"Ace." He huffed, annoyed kid, this one.

"Aight fine. Why would a di even need that many sides?" He looked at me like I was the idiot. I really didn't know.

"You need a dee-twenty to roll for initiative in a lot of games, and a lot of R-P-G systems are based off of the dee-twenty."

"The who in the what now?"

"Rpgs."

"You're not helping, Fairfield."

"Like Dungeons and Dragons."

"HA- nerd."

"It's not just for nerds." He yelled back, snatching the bag out of my hand.

"I always knew you were a little more out of the crowd than you let on, Dwight." His cheeks went a little bit red as I said that, though quickly going back.

"Dungeons is fun. I think you'd enjoy it if we got some of the others to play."

"U-huh."

"You'd make a good rogue." My blank face probably coerced him to go on. "Thief, assassin, mercenary, whatever."

"I can just do that in real life."

"But have  _you_ ever stolen the egg of a level twenty frost dragon?"

"No, because I'm not some nerd kid."

"You'll never be too old for d'n'd, Ace. If I get David to play, you have to join us."

"Nerd game for math nerds, not interested."

"What if I get David  _and_ Nea?"

"You? Convince Nea Karlsson to play some dice game? Not a chance."

"If I do, you have to play."

"I'll take your bet, boy. Just don't expect to win." I gave him a pat on the shoulder as I rolled my eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a big fat d&d nerd  
> i play every wednesday with friends and i host even more rpgs  
> tbh  
> dwight heavily fits the description of one of my friends who had a paladin so  
> here u go


	5. An Illness(Jason Voorhees)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're not the only sick fuck out there, that much is true.  
> A much sicker fuck is apparently much sweeter, too.

There's nothing quite as satisfying as the sound of peeling skin.  
The near crackling noise as it's stripped from the muscle.  
Even thinking about it sends tingles down my spine.

To have the splinter of someone's ivory bone beneath your fingertips, held out for the world to see.  
A fountain of blood spewing from the vessels newly split with the rest of the meat.

It's such a pleasant feeling to have your thumbs go through someone's temples.  
So hard, and then instantaneously soft as they go dead limp in your arms.

I've done things to make war veterans cringe and shake their heads. What else is new.

Apparently taking a walk in southern New Jersey and finding other people.

Everyone in Jersey yaps and yaps about Camp blood, what happens there even if you're "just visiting" and the like.  
It's 2018.  
The legend is deader than my mom's failed 80's art career.

It's _funny_.  
_I'm_ funny.

Nonetheless, taking a trek through the wilds of New Jersey is a new one. It holds a certain earthy scent, unmatched by the pathetic replica of a public park. It's truly wild and free, and the perfect hiding spot. Beast hiding in the woodlands of legend, mockery of previous left killers. Mooching on legend to ween and to hide a baby killer. I could even get a hockey mask and play off that "Jason still lives". 

Hours of lonesome hiking daydreams, lead me to the edge of the water.  
I figured this would be a good a spot as any for a quick rest.

The wildlife hadn't seen people in generations, and were hardly skittish. Wasn't hard to take a bowie knife to a squirrel and slap it's organs on display.  
Pathetic little creature hardly squirmed as I peeled it's tiny pelt clean off.   
I sat upon a large stump, bag set next to me.

I really needed my psychosis meds. But I didn't have any. This would just be how I lived now. It didn't matter.

I briefly considered eating the squirrel before pulling a plastic bag from my knapsack, stuffing the animal and it's pelt inside, and plopping that into my knapsack. Didn't need more than an instant.

Some light crunching alerted me to the forest. I was dead convinced it was another squirrel until the hulking form above me took another step just behind me.

Holy fucking shit.

Jason Voorhees, in the undead-flesh. Yellowed and bloodied broken mask, large ripped flannel, and that white-blueish skin.

I bolted up from my seat, watching as he continued closer.  
Deer in the headlights.

Why did my legs want to quit working? I had no idea, but I fished around in my pocket for my bowie knife.

Actually, now that I was looking for whatever weapon would be the cause of a creative death, it became clearer that he didn't have anything on him. No odd glint of metal or obvious shapes within his hands as he pressed until he was right in front of me.

"Can you like, fuck off?" I could feel my voice squeak. That was intimidating or funny.

He simply stared me down a moment more, bringing a shaky finger to point at my bag. His other hand outstretched and opened.  
Throwing it open, I tossed the little squirrel's corpse into his hand and he gave me a light nod before simply turning, and walking off.

Okay. Maybe I should stick around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a quickie  
> enjoy


	6. Escapism (Trapper/Meg)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg's on a steady slope.  
> It's not up.

My last few trials haven't been going too well, and it's starting to show. Especially since I was just sacrificed, even if I was the last one to go.

I trudged back to the campfire, bleeding shoulder and sides beginning to rapidly show muscle repair. I ran right up to the place, arms open in some sort of expectance, as I dropped myself and hung heavy, legs aimlessly dragging me to a log seat.

"You look like hell, Meg," Nea nudged my arm with cold fingers, pulling my gaze from the ground, up to her.

"Thanks Karlsson." I gave a gritty smile.

"'M serious, you're burning yourself out crazy bad." The Swede went on.

"I'll be fine."

"You've been sprinting outside of trials again, haven't you?"

I felt my breath hitch.

"So you have."

"No, what gave you that idea? I've been on long distance."

"You keep coming back sooner and sooner." Her brow furrowed.

Dwight chimed in. "We're-worried about you."

"What do you want me to do? Stop practicing what I need to practice?"

"You're the best runner out of all of us, you can't burn yourself out like this." Nea went on, "You tripped Jake while stumbling out of the way of the Nurse. _The Nurse_. The slowest killer."

"Okay, maybe it's starting to become a problem."

"Just..Take a nap. Something." Dwight mumbled.

"'Will you all get off my back if I do?" I shrugged, raising my eyebrows. 

"Gladly." Giving me a light pat, Nea stood up and stretched, nodding to Dwight. "Trial."

Seeing as I couldn't feel the soul-binding tug of the Entity reaching for me, I decided now was as good a time as any to actually plop down and pass out. Nea and Dwight skittered off into the fog, and I was, for once, left alone. I wasn't about to go back on my word and waste away in conscious self hate, so sleep sounded good.  
I slumped off my dirty log onto the forest floor, closed my eyes, and went where it took me.

 

I'd awoken not much longer when Jake and Quentin returned, the two having a quiet conversation about the importance of digital cameras.  
Laurie was here not a moment later, so sleeping wasn't an option any more.  
Those three were hella close. And whenever they could, they stuck together. Those quiet few.  
I didn't have any issues with it, but sleeping around them wasn't an option.

I rose from my spot, now that I  _was rested_ I could go off and take a walk. Not even a jog, just a walk.

"Hey, I'll be in the fog if anyone needs me." I yelled over, though over their little tech era chat, I doubt any of them heard me as I fumbled off into the woods.

It wasn't completely uncommon to dip into the killer's domains, but when you did, it was relatively understood between most survivors that we didn't stick around long. Especially if more than one was present.  
I felt the muggy air of Autohaven gasoline pierce my nostrils. I continued my walk, it wasn't like I was doing anything morally wrong. I didn't look through all their shit.

Turning the corner on one of the car heaps, I felt my heels dig into the dirt.

Standing against a pillar of tires, sat the uncloaked Wraith. His unblinking eyes focused not on me, though. The Hillbilly stood against a tree where his weapons remained propped up.  
They were enveloped in some sort of conversation I couldn't hear, and I wasn't noticed yet.  
I took this as an invitation.

Meandering back to the fog, I expected to head to the warmth of the Campfire.  
I was incorrect.

 

The distinct night air of MacMillan estate was stark against the green fog I'd emerged from.   
I was by that two-floored house. Boxes littered the yards. Strange, random bricked walls.  
I'd be one hundred percent fucked if I got trapped here.

I didn't have time to think, I was going to be focused solely on watching the ground for any sort of glinting metal. I heard Claudette barely escaped this place alive the last time she went out herb searching. And, shockingly enough, I'd never been here alone. It was always in a trial, or  _with_ Claudette.

My eyes were trained to the ground, so when I began to get a little bit more gutsy and walk out into the grass, I was focused.  
Too focused to feel the warm breathing against my hair, apparently.

I, Megan S. Thomas, have  _walked_ face first into the chest of The Trapper. Easily one of the most terrifying killers.

I gave a meek yelp and tripped backwards, falling flat on my ass. He didn't really approach me, so at least I had that going for me.

I could feel my heart at the edge of my throat, demanding me to stop being such a pussy and actually let me get up and away from what gripped at only primal fear, to let me leave.  
His mask was that of white, metal shards sticking from what could only be presumed to be a jaw in some resemblance to teeth. Several metal hooks jutted from his shoulder, implying things that even as a group, survivors couldn't piece together reasonably.

"Runner," He chuckled, voice gravely and I could even see his lips move as he spoke. "What are you doing?"

Remaining silence wasn't too much of an option, unless I presumably wanted my entrails flung into a beartrap.

"Nuh-thing." I stuttered out.

"You're looking for something." He took a step towards me and he kneeled down, so I scooted back, still to terrified to get my stupid bearings.

"Traps."

"Why-" He paused, actually putting his right hand to his face. So he was unarmed. Yea, sure, that helps. "Why would I set up traps where I'm constantly walking?"

I faintly remember after I'd unhooked David how I was immediately brought down, and the moment the Trapper brought me to the hook how his leg became stuck in his own trap.  
I have to keep a laugh from bubbling in my throat.

"Yea, haha, that's kinda stupid...huh." My nerves are on fire with terror.

"I'm done with you." He stood. "Come along. I need to be rid of you before you're scrambling to the chopping block."

And he offered me a hand. I reluctantly grabbed on as he pulled me to my feet.

"You've been unfocused lately, you know." He hummed, leading me through the woods.

"....yea."

"Used to be, even a little bit, fun to watch you squirm. Are you aware of the dark circles that plague your eyes? You often look like the one who Freddy obsesses over. Quentin, 'er something like that."

"That's fucked." I blurted out, mostly desensitized already to the fact I was walking with a killer. I mean, no sense in being overly terrified, even if the dude was about twice my size. Hahah, classic sarcasm.

"Language."

"You get enjoyment out of murder." My face involuntarily scrunched up.

"I didn't used to. It's better you than me, anyways. Much slimmer, quieter. Easier to survive."

"Thank you?"

"You're very welcome."

We continued, past that gnarled old oak tree. We had to be getting somewhere.

"Almost there."

"That's a relief."

"To be frank with you, if I may," He awaited anything so I simply nodded before he spoke again. "You should start taking better care of yourself. Not just because it's easier to catch you."

"I'm fine." I shrugged, rolling my eyes and throwing my braids back over my shoulder.

"None of us are fine here- What- What's your name?"

"Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine."

"Evan MacMillan, now out with it."

"Meg Thomas."

"None of us are fine here, Meg."

"I mean, yea. We're all in this eternal purgatory with no idea of when or if we're ever going to escape, with daunting nightmares and fear of failure if we slip up in trials."

"..."

"Not to even mention the excruciating pain we have to endure daily anyways."

"You really should take care of yourself."

"I am-"

"Without working yourself to the bone."

We'd reached that supply warehouse, and he pointed off into the fog. 

"Well thanks, I guess."

"Stop messing up in trials, and you'll be more than welcome to come back and visit."

"Will do."

Will not do.

I walked back off into the fog unscathed, with many, many more questions than I originated with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh hi I feel like shit  
> life's burning me out  
> i'm trying to find more dbd inspiration but it's just  
> not there  
> got this out though so YEET


	7. A Pint(Jake & Quentin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol.

In all my many, many presumed years around our campfire, there's always been certain "necessities" we've been denied by the Entity.

Like, for good example, alcohol.  
That's totally essential.  
At least according to David, Nea and Ace. 

After about five minutes, it had turned from a yearn to have liquor go down your throat into "hey let's talk about how we used to get black out drunk and beat up people".   
That was David, anyway.

There's minors here. It's only Feng, I think. But she's still a minor, and therefore needs to be protected at all costs.

What I  _wasn't_ expecting was for her to come clean about going out drinking with her gaming team, and how many bars they'd snuck her into when she was just seventeen or eighteen. How anyone could think this was okay, I'd never know. She didn't have much time left to explain before being whisked into a trial with Kate, Claudette and Adam. Not before they could put in their two cents, of course.  
Unsurprisingly, the only mature people about the matter were Laurie and Quentin. And Dwight, but none of us really expected him to be a huge party animal anyways. 

And then David started to go off again.

"Y'know back when I visited Ireland for a quick little pop in, they wouldn't even let me in the bar," He had that shit eating, 'yea you know I was being such a public nuisance that nobody could put up with me' face. 

"What, did you kill a bouncer?" Meg interjected while she took a seat. 

"Naw, naw, nothin' crazy. Bastards just wouldn't let me in for even a beer,"

"I've heard German bars are real nice. Drinking age is fifteen, but the stuff's so potent that nobody's stupid enough to drink it that young," Nea smirked as she crossed her arms from her campfire seat.

"When was the last time any of you had a decent bottle?" David stared out at everyone, semi-bored.

"Like, maybe a week or two before I ended up here?" Meg shrugged, always quick to the conversation. "Whole college track team went out for a celebratory dinner, everyone also decided that whiskey shots would be fun."

"Day I got here, I swear I had a bottle in my hand." Ace raised his eyebrows from behind his glasses and beamed.

"I didn't drink a whole lot, so I really can't say." Nea shrugged before turning to me. "The survivalist used to drink, didn't he?"

"Not often, no." I could feel density in the air after that. "I had a little liquor flask, but it wasn't like I'd chug it all day. It's expensive. Way too expensive to be drinking any time I wasn't ready to collapse."

"I've...never drank." Dwight mumbles.

Ace snickered, though clearly not in any sort of mean spirited way as he quickly gave him a pat to the back.

"Fair enough." Meg slumped over, resting her arms on her knees as she slouched down.

"It's weird to think you're all drinking like this, honestly." Oh yea. Laurie's still here.

"Alcohol's a big part of life." David put his hands together in quiet praise, whispering a soft amen.

"Alright," I muttered, getting up with a stretch. "I was just in a trial, so I don't think I'll be plucked out soon. I'm going into the fog, anyone wanna come with?"

"I'm up for it," Quentin raised his hand, which I grabbed to pull him to his feet.

He gave some flick of dismissal, and the two of us started to meander out of camp, and into the fog.

Cold, gripping. The slightest bit damp as we trudged in.  
It soon dissipated with a familiar smell of heated rust and grain, the muggy summer air starting to get under my skin. Quentin and I gave a hesitant glance to each other as the Thompson house came into view.

Quentin and I stuck close together, mostly because not a whole good majority of survivors ventured past here. Not without finding the Hillbilly completely tied up in "conversation" with another killer. Usually the Wraith, if not the Trapper. And on most occasions, both of them.  
It was easy pickings just to leave.

I began to walk on up to the house, Quentin right behind me. We never really got a good look at the place while we were in trials, anyhow.

Random boxes and crates strewn about, trash kicked up in some corners of the room with odd animal carcasses littering the rest of the floor. One of those crates, though, happened to be open. 

I stepped on over, mumbling a soft "give me a hand with this" before Quentin and I began to pull at the top of the crate, just enough to slide it over and see what was inside.

An entire crate, full of those polish pottery jugs. 

"Well isn't that fitting?" A smirk overtook Quentin's face as he stared down into the crate, fingers gingerly running across the bottles.

"What?"

" _Moonshine_ , Jake. An  _entire crate_ just absolutely full of  _moonshine_." 

"Well, we could be responsible adults."

"I'm eighteen."

"Still an adult."

"Yea, okay. But we could also take this back. I'm not saying we even need to drink any, it might make some sort of good offering."

"Damn. You're right." He chuckled at my sudden amusement. "Well, I don't think it'd be smart to take more than one."

Quentin shrugged, starting to pull a bottle out of the crate.

"Help me get it sealed up so we can leave."

I did just that.

After sealing the crate, I picked up the jug of moonshine. Quentin would be the eyes, enough to get us back into the fog.  
Until the roaring of a chainsaw began from the cornfields.

"Shit." Quentin whispered, his face going slightly pale.

The two of us crept to the stairs to the back exit, just as soon as the Hillbilly ran in, chainsaw going right into one of the unopened crates.   
He must have an ungodly amount of moonshine. Especially with how the Entity just loves to re-create endless amounts of food, flowers, clothes, the like.   
And on cue, he propped the broken crate's lid open, taking a bottle and sitting atop the crates.

Quentin and I couldn't do much but sit, and wait.

The Hillbilly unplugged the bottle with whatever excuse for fingernails he had, and just started chugging. Afterwards, he shook his head and let out a large huff, tossing the jug to the floor as it shattered with a loud crack.

And he was back on his chainsaw, revving and charging out the door and into the fog.

"Alcoholic." Quentin murmured. 

"No kidding."

We trudged back into the fog, and returned, a bottle of moonshine for all. 

Then we saw the real alcoholics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in desperate need of requests please help  
> I made this in like  
> under an hour today


End file.
